Gustav

Good evening, Brave Writers. Today I wish to share with you the cautionary tale of a young writer named — ah, let us call her Felicia Alicia McPecia, to protect what scanty shreds of privacy she retains. (I am well aware that this weak pseudonym will do little to deter astute readers from discerning her true identity; I can only beg you to allow Miss McPecia to live out her days of squalor and ignominy unmolested.) Her tale is not, as you might think, a warning against the cruel critics who drove her to drink, gambling, and madness, but a warning against second thoughts.

Miss McPecia first came to the Directorate’s attention when she began her epic work, a sixteen-part saga involving Vikings, dragons, modern banking conspiracies, sentient tattoos, and a dozen other unlikely items. It seemed a ghastly mish-mash to me, though the quality of her work was not our concern: we feared that sixteen volumes might prove too much for any author. We put her on a special Watch List as soon as she began to blather about the work to her writing group, and vowed to keep her typing diligently away, however incoherent her vision for the work might be.

At first, it seemed our suspicions were misplaced. Not only did Miss McPecia blaze through her first draft with a speed some called “unseemly,” but the first volume found a publisher and popular success! Incredible — but the reading public’s taste has never been less than utterly abhorrent.

Unfortunately, publication was the last good thing to happen to Miss McPecia. For no sooner had her volume appeared on the shelf, when she began to have second thoughts. I should not have ended the volume with the banker’s firey Viking funeral, she mused;  for it will make the jollity of the opening of the next volume appear unseemly. No matter; all she had to do was rearrange the scenes of the second volume a bit, to open with a bit more gravitas. No matter!

Poor foolish Miss McPecia.

For second thoughts, like sorrows and mosquitoes, come not as single spies but as batallions.

Once she allowed the first of the legion past her guard, the way was clear for the rest, and she was beset. I should change the heroine to a dog! For everyone adores dogs! she thought, and then Why aren’t there any robots in this beastly novel? and I have not drunk enough absinthe to write this scene! and What on earth will Great-Aunt Maureen Laureen McFlorine think of the steamy scene in Chapter Sixty-Nine? I should have made it more sedate!

And just like that, all hope was lost, for Miss McPecia was consumed by second thoughts.  She found herself unable to even begin her second novel, for second thoughts had devoured her mind and, indeed, her very soul, and left her as nothing more than an empty (but attractive) vessel in which second thoughts could cavort licentiously. All trace of creativity had been permanently erradicated.

Her publisher was distraught, and sent Miss McPecia’s editrix to help her regain her will to write. But the poor editrix was no match for the vast wave of Miss MicPecia’s second thoughts, and before long, succumbed to her own second thoughts, and joined Miss McPecia at the docks for gambling, opium-smoking, and other shameful behavior, all documented in the tabloids of the day.

It is a tragic tale, Brave Writers. Let it not become yours.

All are vulnerable.

Why, even seasoned Directorate agents such as myself can be vulnerable to the deadly plague of second thoughts. I find myself hesitating before posting this: for why was the Directorate not able to save Miss McPecia from herself? Indeed; mistakes, hideous and unforgiveable, were made. I myself was so absorbed by Miss McPecia’s novel that I did not pay sufficient attention to her progress on its sequels; I shall bear the stench of that failure for the rest of my life.

Do I not have my own second thoughts about that misbegotten Manifesto that cost so dearly? Do I not have my own dark cloak of second thoughts wrapped around me at all times?

Indeed.

But I cannot allow myself to fall, unwary, into the same trap, and allow myself to become mired in the dark cesspool of second thoughts. I must summon all my courage, and proceed. Thus I present:

Three Steps to Avoid Succumbing to Swarms of Second Thoughts.

1. Be aware. Miss McPecia was an innocent: she did not understand the risk she faced. Now that you have read this missive, you are forewarned, and will approach the shadows in your path with trepidation and caution.

2. Be impervious. Do not listen. Hold your vision, however improbable, unlikely, bizarre, and wrong it may be: hold your vision tight, and write it. Do not allow second thoughts to sway you away from your path. Let your vision be a mighty shield; let it deflect all sorrows, mosquitoes, and second thoughts.

3. Be implacable. Simply write, undaunted. Subsite sermonem statim et scribe.

Your Turn.

What second thoughts beset you? Bring them to light here, that we may help you with their banishment.

O my little Opium Poppies! I am Delighted to see you again, and while I wish I could Trust you have been Diligent in our too-lengthy Absence, I fear a Noxious Slackness has overcome you. Fear no more, Faithful Agents! The Fiction-Writing Directorate has Returned.

The Directorate wishes to offer its Most Sincere Thanks and Appreciation to the Giant Squid, for kindly Guest-Posting. Even my great Shock at his most Scandalous Accusations does not negate my Gratitude.

Where were we, you Inquire, most nosily? O my little Whip-Poor-Wills, we traveled to a Distant and Mysterious city to learn the Ancient and Bizarre art of Shiva Nata.  It is an Extraordinary practice, one Sure to help Dissolve even the most stubborn of Writer’s Blocks. We look Forward to bringing these Teachings to our Students.

After our Class, we retreated to the Directorate’s secret Hide-Out in Tibet, where we hid from the Sweltering Summer and Meditated deeply. Very very deeply! When not Meditating, we were engaged in Useful Tasks, such as rescuing unfortunate Wretches (and their Kittens!) from a Burning Orphanage, comforting and aiding Widows, and succoring the Poor. It was very very Noble of us and I –

O! I cannot continue this Foul Lie! My little Pomegranates, we were not in Tibet; we were not being Noble at all. Nay! We returned from our Training to find ourselves Mired in a most insidious Writer’s Block of our own! The Horror!

Perhaps you can Imagine our Consternation. That we, the entire Staff of the formidable Fiction-Writing Directorate, should find ourselves so stymied. We wailed; we gnashed our fearsome Teeth; we threatened ourselves with Dire Punishments; we coddled ourselves with Pie; yet we found only the slightest Glimmers of Relief from our terrible Condition. Only Boggins seemed Immune, and went about his Tasks with his usual unsettling Cheer.

Even though we feared our Condition was Terminal, we Persisted; we had no Choice. In time, we clawed ourselves out of the Abyss into which we had Fallen, and now return with a Flourish of Triumphant Trumpets, to bring you:

Three Wholesome Teachings on Writer’s Block

The First Teaching

You are not Broken. You may feel Crushed under your Block; you may feel Hopeless; you may feel Doomed to everlasting Darkness; you may feel the Holy Fire of your Writing has been Permanently Extinguished. O my little Russian Wolf-Hounds, please know that you are Not Lost. Even if you are nothing more than a Brain floating in a Vat of Murky Brine, and can see no cause for Hope, you must not Despair. With appropriate Persistance, you will Find your Way. You are not Broken until the Hounds have Licked the last fetid fleck of Marrow from your Crackling Bones.

I Promise. Trust Me, if you cannot trust Yourself.

The Second Teaching

You do not need the Holy Fire of Inspiration or Purpose to Write. If all Inspiration has Abandoned you, if all the world is Gray and Tasteless in your Mouth, if all that Thrums in your Veins is Laudanum, be Thankful! For now you can learn to Write by virtue of your own Skill, which is vastly more Reliable than a Flickering and Unsteady celestial Flame. O my little Rhinocerous, I know it is a terrible Cliche; but there is terrible Truth in the Ancient Words: There is no such thing as Janitor’s Block.

Make Boggins your Model, and simply Carry On, until you find your Biscuit.

The Third Teaching

Help Others. Even as we were Crushed by our own Block, we found Solace in helping other Writers. It is vastly easier to help Others than to help Yourself, we Realized. Our teaching of the Strange Art of Shiva Nata helped two Agents begin their Novels; and seeing their Progress inspired Us, after all our other Techniques had Failed miserably. Even when we were at our most Recalcitrant, we could not help but be Improved by our own Wise Counsel.

Your Turn.

Please tell us how you Consoled yourself in the Long and Sorrowful period of our Absence. Or tell us how you Intend to apply our Three Wholesome Teachings to the Foulness of your own Writer’s Block.

CHALLENGE THE SECOND FROM THE GIANT SQUID, EDITOR-IN-ABSENTIA OF HIS POOR MOJO’S ALMANAC(K) AND RELATED LITERARY CONCERNS

My Dearest and Devoted Scribblerians and Writorios,

I text in haste, and I fear without sufficient care for, I am exhausted: Today, I am to be transfered from the relative comforts of my tiled tank here in the Directorate’s tower to either the primary or sous-kitchen, so that I might be butchered and yet live again, first as sashimi, then as handrolls, then as calimari, then as taco salad, then as “seafood medley,” and finally as some abomination which Boggins reports Gustav has called “meatloaf surprise.”

Thus, it should shock none that I suffered some measure of insomnia this past evening, passing the night in the company of Lida, who throughout the thin and gruesome hours stroked my tentacles and helped me dream of the life that we might have together, were I not destined for the chafing dish. Together we fantasized in great detail of our frontier life upon the prairies, she in her bonnet, me in my homespun, steam-powered velocitational suit, the bright and life-giving sun lending my brass fittings a warm glow as I cut the sod for our house, set the timbers for our barn, and dismembered the still quivering and lowing cows for our dinners. Meanwhile, Lida would spin us fine angora wool from our many angora cats, which we would then weave into angora nets, and use to scoop up the delicious angora children from the neighboring angora villages, so that she might school them in the finer points of general literacy, poetic license, and flower-identification and pressing, prior to my spit-roasting them and selling their meats to nearby encampments of zombie Confederate soldiers, gathered to repel the onslaught of clockwork Union infantrymen come to staunch the flow of our dear Bleeding Kansas.

But, Dear Readers, note that it is not the exhaustion of my long night of “could have beens” with Lida that makes my time so short this morning, for just moments ago my fair mistress and hostess excused herself to “powder the room.” When I heard the door creak again, revealing creeping, and undeniably creepy, Mr. Boggins accompanied by none others than several members of my troupe of francophonic chimps long in my employ!

“I wired your monkeys,” Boggins said simply, “They’ve got your walking suit tip-top and coming up to steam, and are prepared to haul it most of the way to you, then you the rest of the way to it.”

“My Mr. Boggins!” I did exclaim, “Why, I am somewhat indebted to you, I imagine!”

“Yup,” Boggins said simply. “I figure I’ll let Ethelie and Gustav think that Lida let you slip away, and then find a way to get her out of the mess, and in the end she’ll fall in love with me.”

I must have looked dubious, for he then added, “There’s still details to work on.” I opened my beak–despite my best interests–intent on helping Mr. Boggins realize just how many details he might be hoping will sort themselves out when my chimp Claude taped on the face of the fine chronometer strapped to his hirsute wrist, and I took his meaning: It was time for us to make our exeunt, with all due celerity.

And so it is I live to write another day.

DEAR READER-WRITERS, I ENJOIN YOU:

Take a moment, for a moment is all you have, to very gently explain to a very lovely confidant why you have abandoned her to her no-doubt complicated fate. Time yourself; pen for no more than seven minutes, revise for exactly three, and work ardently to leave her heart intact . . . now WRITE! GO!

—–
Poor Mojo’s Giant Squid writes his weekly advice columns and ongoing memoir from Detroit, MI, publishing these at www.squid.poormojo.org. He is aided in this endeavor by the Poor Mojo’s Almanac(k) editorial team: Morgan Johnson, David Erik Nelson, and Fritz Swanson.

CHALLENGE THE FIRST FROM THE GIANT SQUID, EDITOR-IN-ABSENTIA OF HIS POOR MOJO’S ALMANAC(K) AND RELATED LITERARY CONCERNS

My Dearest Typistas and Quilleros,

I fear matters have, for me, become substantially more grim since our exhortation earlier this week. Specifically, despite Lida’s insistence that we shall soon sort out my implicit confinement here within the strange towers of the Fiction-Writing Directorate, I seem to have, in the meantime, dug my own grave–or, essentially no different, garnished my own serving platter.

Yesterday I enjoyed a mid-afternoon interview with Ethelie and Gustav, the latter clutching yet a new and even more be-paperéd clip board, quill in hand. Gustav was especially particular in noting, in great and terrifying detail, the increasing debts I incur as they quarter me here.

Gustav further made clear that my vast writing credentials and experience in project management of both supergun and weather-control projects (leaving aside my brief, non-contiguous stints as President of These United States and frontsquid of a glamorous rock-whilst-rolling minstrel’s band) earn me little formal recognition among the upper management and investors of the Directorate, in terms of gainful employment.

Ethelie then indicated that, having analyzed their staffing needs, the Directorate currently has only two open posts: a) a French translator (by which I took her to mean one who could translate from French to English, the lingua non-franca of the Directorate itself, rather than a generic translator who is of French extraction) or b) a source of valuable and tasty protein for the cafeteria buffet.

Having been briefly tutored by one of my several francophonic chimps prior to spending four days and three nights in Quebec City several years earlier, I elected to interview for the former position–yes, I was less qualified for it, but it was nonetheless more desirable, as it started at a higher wage, included a matching 401k fund, and did not result in my immediate death and dismemberment.

Madam Ethelie quickly rattled off a looping, staccato chain of French declarations trailing a single lilting interrogative. In response, I deployed the first French phrase that came to my razorish beak–and, incidentally, the only French phrase I know which is not directly related to procuring food or drink, booking passage by freight train, or complaining about the qualities of bed-and-breakfast accommodations–having been under the impression that it served in something of the same manner as “And a many and fine good day to you, sir or madame”:

“Va pèter dans le trèfle, maudite fausse-couche!”

Had a Victrola jukebox been playing at that moment, its needle would have noisily scrapped free of the record, and in the ensuing silence crickets would have sang but briefly, then stopped. Gustav’s jaw dropped, and Ethelie’s glacial face began to calve, only to halt itself mid-collapse and petrify, her lips a line thin and sharp enough to slice a hard cheese. Even the janitor Boggins briefly paused in his trouser-pocket toils. Lida, sweet and well meaning Lida, giggled, then covered her mouth to stifle the trickle, then guffawed.

Ethelie turned on her hob-nailed heel and, stately as a cloud of mustard gas, left my room. Gustav mad a single, authoritative tick on his papers, then followed. I was soon thereafter informed that I had been hired to serve in the cafeteria.

NOW, DEAR READERS AND WRITERS, I NOTE:

There is truth–often unintended truth–in the speech of our mouths, and although my Quebecois greeting held not the meaning I had intended, its Truth is beyond doubt. Today’s exercise is this:

Quickly, and without undue pre-consideration, settle upon two characters whose goals are at crosscurrent: Perhaps you might imagine a car salesperson who desperately needs to sell an ill-used 1982 Chevrolet Chevette at a slightly exorbitant rate, despite the dismembered corpse concealed in the bay which ought to hold the Chevette’s spare tire. His counterpart is, of course, a purchaser who is anxious to transport a soon-to-reanimate corpse, but whose bejeweled Lana Marks Cleopatra clutch does not contain funds sufficient to the demands of the lusty salesperson–although it does contain a gun, which lacks bullets, and which she would prefer not to reveal.

Write them into a dialogue in which all of the above is revealed, despite the speakers’ best efforts at concealing these facts. Do not use the words “corpse” or “gun.” That the corpses are siblings, and the buyer and seller likewise, may or may not come into play.

—–

Poor Mojo’s Giant Squid writes his weekly advice columns and ongoing memoir from Detroit, MI, publishing these at www.squid.poormojo.org.  He is aided in this endeavor by the Poor Mojo’s Almanac(k) editorial team: Morgan Johnson, David Erik Nelson, and Fritz Swanson.

Pay clear Attention, quislings! Today we have the Honour of a Guest Lecture. An Adept of a Strange (and Possibly Oriental) Path of Awesomeness, Catherine has some Excellent Advice which you should Heed.

Umm, hello everyone.

It’s a dreadful honour to be here, and a little intimidating, too. It’s been some time since I was, ah, disciplined by the VerbHounds, but certain parts of my anatomy remember the encounter very well.

I wanted to tell you about a phenomenon I see regularly. It doesn’t fill me with the same rage that Ethelie would undoubtedly feel, but it does make me sad and angry. It’s about websites.

(And Moleskines, and iPhones, legal pads, dungeon walls, parchments, and all of the other flat objects we use to house our words.)

And the problem I have with them is…

None of them matter if you don’t write.

Far too often I see this doleful sight: the owner has spent many dollars and hours building the most beautiful, user-friendly, search-engine-optimised, social-media-integrated, delightful website of all time. It has everything it needs, except for content.

And so it’s a beautiful, optimised, delightful… failure.

Content is the most important

Don’t spend three hours changing your font size instead of writing. (Don’t spend three hours gluing stickers onto your notepad, either.)

Start writing while your website is still ugly. Start writing before there’s a website at all!

Before you know who your audience will be. Before people approve of your ideas. Before you know what you’re writing about. Before you find a partner. Before anything.

At worst, your drafts will be used to start a fire in the pot-bellied stove and you will need to write more. This will be so much easier now you’re a Regular Writer; twice as fast is not an impossible feat.

The perils of putting it off

If you delay until you have all the Answers? Your writing muscles will be weak and unable to carry your new inspiration. Your first entries will be so lamentably flawed that you will wonder if your idea isn’t quite right yet. (It is! But you’re not ready.) There are those, depressed by the “failure” of their idea, who abandon it and start again.

Often, of course, they don’t write then, either.

Poor fools. The Hounds will see to them.

The monster under the keyboard

Is fear.

A thousand horrifying flavours of risk and uncertainty and consequences; a hundred imaginary perils, a dozen judging voices (some of them yours)… fear is the monster under the keyboard. We must learn to tame our fears to write great work.

Not exactly news, I know. But something you might not know (or have forgotten) is that writing is a great antidote to fear. Writing is action, and action is the single best fear-tamer there is. It doesn’t have to be great writing. (It doesn’t even have to make sense.) Every time you gather yourself and start the keys (or the pen) moving, you get stronger. Braver. And much, much less likely to acquire entertaining scars from the VerbHounds.

I have gathered my own small wisdoms on the subject of fear and websites and turned them into a resource:
Awesome Fear-Wrangling: tame your website fears, grow an awesome website (affiliate link). If you think it would be helpful to you, come over and have a look. You can use the word “scribe” to get a discount of $20.

Or you can save yourself a bit of money and follow the simplest advice ever:

Subsiste statim sermonem et scribe.

People been asking me what kind of biscuits did Ma make.  HA HA!  All kinds! No one makes them like Ma did, but if you’re a lazy old writer and want to cook instead of write, well, who am I to tell you that’s a dumb idea, and you’ll never make them as good as Ma.

Here ya go, from Ma’s old recipe books, straight from her hand.

Ma Boggins’s Coffee and Cranberry Biscuits

• Two glasses of fancy flour
• Four little spoons of baking dust
• Three little spoons of sugar dust
• Half a little spoon of Dr. Pinsnap’s Magic Salt Dust
• Half a glass of fat
• One egg
• Two thirds glass of milk (pig or cows preferred)
• One big spoon of smashed coffee beans
• One baby handful of dried (or fresh) cranberries

Mix together the fancy flour, baking dust, sugar dust, and some Magic Salt Dust.  Mush in the fat until it crumbles like the kitchen wall near the screen door.

Stir it up with the egg and the milk and the smashed coffee beans.  Then mix in the cranberries.

When it’s nice and wet, beat it with your fists. Pow Pow Pow!  BOOM!  Then use a round cutter to make flat biscuit doughs.  Bake it at 450 degrees for 8-10 minutes.

Serve warm with a saucer of apple peanut butter gravy!

I made a large batch to feed to all these sickie-dickie directorate folks, so they’ll probably be up and at’em by Monday.

So make a batch yourself, post a pic, and tell ol’ Boggins how much you loved his Ma’s biscuits.

O Brave Agents! Today we continue our Journey to the Center of our Selves. Today we investigate our Fears.

I trust that you Catalogued your Excuses yesterday, for I know you are Diligent Agents, and Faithfully perform the exercies.

Take your Note-Book, and write out One-Hundred Fears about Writing.

Yes, my little Apple Blossoms, 100.

You will find the first few Easy. You will find the next few Repetitive. Never mind; Keep your Pen moving. Write them down, no matter how Foolish or Ridiculous or Unfounded they may Seem.

For your Deepest Fears are secretive little Beasts; they are not the ones that Present themselves when you first Ask. They will only allow themselves to be Recorded after Persistent effort: like the apparent Idiocy of writing 100 Fears.

I ask for your Trust, my Brave Agents. Write 100 fears. You may be surprised what Presents itself.

Begin! Now! And do not Stop until you have reached 100.

1. I am afraid I am too Stupid.

2. I am afraid Spiders will Nibble upon my Corneas.

3. I am afraid I will sustain Physical Damage from Too much Typing.

4. I am afraid People will Reject my Stories and Laugh about me Behind my Back.

5. I am afraid Editors will secretly Blacklist me at their Private Editorial Conferences held each Year, in which they Discuss my Failings.

6. I am afraid all Writers must be Dissoulute Suicides.

7. I am afraid all Writers must be Mad.

8. I am afraid of the Number 8.

9. I am afraid this Exercise is Stupid and I am Wasting my Precious Time.

10. I am afraid no one will Understand my Stories.

And so forth. Make a List, my little Chimpanzees. Make a List. Write your List in a white-hot Frenzy, and see what you Uncover.

What did you Discover?